The wind howled, the snowstorm burst upon us. In a single moment the dark sky melted into the sea of snow. Everything was lost to sight.

“It’s a bad lookout, sir,” the driver shouted. “Snowstorm!” I peeped out of the chaise: darkness and whirlwind were around us. The wind howled with such ferocious expressiveness that it seemed alive; Savelyich and I were covered with snow; the horses walked on slowly and soon stopped altogether.

“Why don’t you go on?” I asked the driver impatiently.

“What’s the good?” he answered, jumping off the box. “I don’t know where we are as it is; there is no road and it is dark.”

I began scolding him, but Savelyich took his side.

“Why ever didn’t you take his advice?” he said angrily. “You would have returned to the inn, had some tea and slept in comfort till morning, and have gone on when the storm stopped. And what’s the hurry? We aren’t going to a wedding.”

Savelyich was right. There was nothing to be done. Snow was falling fast. A great drift of it was being heaped beside the chaise. The horses stood with their heads down and shuddered from time to time. The driver walked around them setting the harness to rights for the sake of something to do. Savelyich was grumbling; I was looking around in the hope of seeing some sign of a homestead or of the road, but I could distinguish nothing in the opaque whirlwind of snow. Suddenly I caught sight of something black.

“Hey, driver!” I cried. “Look, what is that black thing over there?”

The driver stared into the distance.

“Heaven only knows, sir,” he said, climbing back onto the box; “it’s not a wagon and not a tree, and it seems to be moving. It must be a wolf or a man.”

I told him to go toward the unknown object, which immediately began moving toward us. In two minutes we came upon a man.

“Hey, there, good man,” the driver shouted to him, “do you know where the road is?”

“The road is here,” the wayfarer answered. “I am standing on hard ground, but what’s the good?”

“I say, my good fellow, do you know these parts?” I asked him. “Could you guide us to a night’s lodging?”

“I know the country well enough,” the wayfarer answered. “I should think I have trodden every inch if it. But you see what the weather is: we should be sure to lose our way. Better stop here and wait; maybe the snowstorm will stop and when the sky is clear we can find our bearings by the stars.”

His coolness gave me courage. I decided to trust to Providence and spend the night in the steppe, when the wayfarer suddenly jumped onto the box and said to the driver: “Thank God, there’s a village close by; turn to the right and make straight for it.”

“And why should I go to the right?” the driver asked with annoyance. “Where do you see the road? It’s easy enough to drive other people’s horses.”

The driver seemed to me to be right.

“Indeed, how do you know that we are close to a village?” I asked the man.

“Because the wind has brought a smell of smoke from over there,” he answered, “so a village must be near.”

His quickness and keenness of smell astonished me. I told the driver to go on. The horses stepped with difficulty in the deep snow. The chaise moved slowly, now going into a snowdrift, now dipping into a ravine and swaying from side to side. It was like being on a ship in a stormy sea. Savelyich groaned as he kept jolting against me.